Timmy was a young red dragon, one of a clutch of a dozen siblings born of the same batch of eggs. Timmy was the smallest and meekest, the runt of the litter.
As his siblings grew in confidence and power, they learned to fly and to flame, ravage and destroy. But Timmy could not breathe flame, only smoke. His brothers and sisters teased him about this quite a lot.
“You will never amount to anything,” they would say, “for what kind of use is a dragon without fire?”
One day, Timmy began to grow furious from the teasing, and so he huffed and he puffed, and he filled the land with gray. Everywhere his smoke touched, all of the color was leeched away, forever. No color in the trees, or in the sky. No color in the grass, or the waves. No color in his brothers or his sisters, and one by one they each faded away.
Realizing the he was the only color left in the whole wide world, Timmy began to feel quite sad. For now—even though there was no one to tease or make fun of him, there was also no one to love or care for him.
And so with a deep sigh, Timmy began to breathe smoke harder than ever before. He huffed and puffed and smoked and fumed, and the gray smoke swirled around and around him.
Like a white cow giving milk in a snowstorm, Timmy disappeared.
Inspired by this photo
ParkInkSpot 